


Greg Lestrade's Northern Adventure

by EbonyKnight



Series: The Adventures of Greg and Sherlock [5]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Biphobia, Established Relationship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-26
Updated: 2016-12-28
Packaged: 2018-09-12 10:15:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,732
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9067345
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EbonyKnight/pseuds/EbonyKnight
Summary: Greg has something of a busy day, what with lunch with his daughters, arguments with his ex-wife and sister, and an unexpected visit from the Holmes brothers. Contains some bi-phobic language.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I do not own Sherlock or anything associated. 
> 
> Beta'd by my good friend RomanyWalker.

Saturday morning dawned cold and wet; the whole of the previous week had been cold and wet, and Greg was heartily sick of it. Not that he generally believed in such nonsense, but he was almost coming to think that the weather had had a direct impact on how his week had gone. After leaving Sherlock in bed on Tuesday morning, his team had been called out to a mysterious murder and had made frustratingly little progress. Fruitlessly busy days had led to late nights, and he'd been exhausted by the time he left work late on Friday evening. His mood had not been helped by increasing levels of anxiety as the weekend and the prospect of telling his girls about Sherlock approached, either. 

Greg got out of bed carefully, in deference to his back, which was protesting at having spent so many hours either stooped over looking for non-existent evidence at the crime scene or bent over pointless paperwork and chasing dead leads at his desk. It was still dark out, owing to the early hour, but he'd arranged to pick up Amy at eight so they could get to Sheffield in time to meet Abigail for lunch. A quick, delightfully hot shower had him feeling almost human, and some of the anxiety he had been carrying since arranging lunch went down the drain; either the girls would react well or they wouldn’t, and there was nothing he could do about it. 

Not normally a fussy dresser, Greg took time over what he put on that morning, choosing a dark blue shirt the girls had gifted him with the previous Christmas and a pair of fitted black jeans that Sherlock had made his approval of very clear. He ran a product-covered hand through his wet hair, forcing the grey strands into a semblance of order, put on his good boots, and was ready to leave.

The drive through the rain soaked London streets to his former marital home was made on autopilot, and the city soon gave way to suburbia. Jane had always been keen to have a detached house in the suburbs, and their combined income had been much stretched to pay for her dream home. For all that he desperately missed living with his children, Greg had long since acknowledged that he was happier living in his small Plaidstow flat, in the bustling metropolis, than he had been for several years in suburban Uxbridge. His anxiety increased with his proximity to his former marital home; things hadn't ended well between him and Jane, and maintaining civility for the sake of the girls was something of a Herculean challenge, especially after her numerous extramarital dalliances had come to light. The house looked much the same as ever, with a neatly trimmed hedge and Jane’s pretentious stone lions lying in wait on either side of the front door. Just as he was about to get out of the car his phone vibrated in his pocket, and he was glad for the momentary distraction. 

**Sherlock Holmes:** Do not kill her. I will have solved this case before you get back. 

Greg smiled at the message, feeling some of the tension leave his body. He'd long since learnt not to question how Sherlock knew where he was and what he was doing, for the leaps of logic often left him bewildered, but in that moment he was very pleased that the other man cared enough, in his peculiar way, to devote some of his impressive brain power to Greg’s wellbeing. He had heard nothing from of Sherlock since leaving him in bed on Tuesday morning, but days without contact weren't uncommon, especially when either one of them was knee deep in a hot case. 

**To: Sherlock Holmes:** I’m a copper. I know how to cover my tracks. See you later then?

The last part of his reply was more wishful thinking than anything else, for Greg knew full well that after three days on a case, especially one that had him running all over London, Sherlock was likely to crash until after the weekend, but he could hope. 

More relaxed, he got out of the car and made his way to the house. Jane, who had apparently been watching for him, opened the door before he could ring the bell. 

“Amy’s upstairs,” she greeted frostily, “you’d better come in.”

Greg followed silently into the kitchen, which was unchanged since he had moved out, where his adulterous ex picked up making her breakfast. 

Jane regarded him suspiciously over the island cooker. “What’s going on then?” 

The part of Greg that never seemed to have passed the age of fifteen wanted to be facetious and play dumb, but he knew from bitter experience that it would do him no favours. Leaning back against the kitchen counter with his arms crossed, he met her cold gaze. “I’m seeing someone. Wanted to tell the girls before they find out another way.”

“Don’t you think you should have told me this sooner?” Jane demanded, voice tight with anger. 

“It’s nothing to do with you,” Greg snapped back, trying to reign in his temper. “What and when I tell my daughters is between me and them.”

“Not for something like this!”

Greg, remembering how quickly their conversations could deteriorate into vicious shouting matches, kept his voice determinedly level. “I’m telling you now. I was planning to visit Abby this weekend anyway, so it’s a good chance to tell them together.”

Jane glared at him, clearly unhappy. “Who is it?”

“Sherlock.”

Pale, but for splashes of red across her cheekbones, Jane advanced on Greg. “The junky? The one that nearly cost you your job?” 

“That’d be the one, yeah.”

“For fuck’s sake, Greg! As if it’s not bad enough that you’ve gone for someone half your age, did it have to be _him_?”

Anger rose in Greg. Jane had only ever met Sherlock once, and had taken an instant dislike to him. Granted, coming downstairs on a Sunday morning to find an acquaintance of your husband’s sleeping on the sofa wasn’t a great introduction, but Greg had hidden the fact the Sherlock had broken in, and the other man had been downright charming despite the fact that he'd been going through withdrawal. 

A door closing upstairs, and the resultant knowledge that his youngest daughter would soon be able to hear what they were saying, curtailed Greg’s caustic reply. “This is none of your business. I’m telling the girls today and want to introduce them when Abby's home for Christmas. Say whatever you want once they’ve had a chance to meet him, but until then keep your opinions to yourself.”

Jane glared at him but said nothing else, turning back to preparing her breakfast. 

“Dad!” Amy exclaimed upon seeing him, and dashed across the kitchen. 

Greg swept her into a hug and pressed a kiss into her thick, dark brown hair. “Morning, sweetheart.”

Amy beamed up at him, practically bouncing on the spot. “Ready to go?” 

“Yep,” Greg replied, casting a critical eye over the jeans and short-sleeved top she was wearing. “You going to be warm enough in that? Wouldn’t a jumper be better?”

“Unlike you, I’m not old,” Amy replied with a laugh. “Besides, I’ll be wearing my coat outside.”

“Come on then.” With a hand on her shoulder, Greg guided his daughter towards the front door. She collected her coat and bag from the rack at the bottom of the stairs, and they were ready to go. 

“Bye, Mum!” she called, and Greg was amused to note that she was out of the door before his ex-wife could reply.


	2. Chapter 2

The drive to Sheffield went quickly, and Greg was glad of having time to spend listening to Amy’s excited chatter; she was a bright girl and he was proud of her. 

“Anyway, I told Josh to tell Sophie how he feels because their pining is driving me mad,” she babbled as Greg navigated the motorway exit. 

“Good advice,” he replied distractedly, doing his best to see through the torrential downpour that had started about an hour earlier. 

“So, what’s new with you?” 

Greg flicked a glance at her. “What makes you think there’s something new?” 

“I could hear you and Mum arguing earlier, and when I spoke to Abby about today, she said you sounded dodgy when you rang her. Besides, you’ve been tapping the steering wheel with your thumbs for the last hour and you only ever do that when you’re worked up about something.”

“You’d make a good cop, you know,” he replied resignedly, eyes flicking to the satnav attached to the windscreen. “We’re less than half an hour off, so you’ll know soon enough.” 

“What is it? Have you got a girlfriend? Or a boyfriend?” 

Greg felt a curl of something distinctly uncomfortable in his gut. “You’ll find out at the same time as your sister.”

“Come on, Dad,” she whined. “You can’t tell me there is something and then not tell me what it is!”

“Yes I can: it’s a dad’s prerogative,” Greg said, smirking despite his nerves. “Give Abby a ring and let her know we’re nearly there.” 

Having had it pointed out, Greg was acutely aware of his thumbs tapping agitatedly on the steering wheel and made a concerted effort to still them as his youngest daughter pulled her phone out. 

“It’s me,” she said cheerily into the device. “Dad said we’re nearly there. Yeah, we got off the motorway a bit ago, so get your clothes on, lazy bones! Oh, before you go, you were right, there is something up; he’s doing the thumb thing and everything!”

Greg groaned. “Behave, Ames,” he said, eyes flicking between the busy road and the directions on the satnav. “Tell her we’ll be at her halls in about twenty minutes.” 

Amy relayed his message and ended the call. “Where are we going for lunch, anyway?” 

“Anywhere you two want,” Greg said, valiantly ignoring the possible implications for his bank balance. 

“Oooh, good! I fancy pizza. We made it in food tech last week, and it was so much fun. Mine came out okay, but was a bit burnt around the edges. Mrs Athelney said I needed to have the shelf a bit lower. Poor Jack, though, forgot to put the tomato sauce on his! It’s harder than it looks to get it right, but I guess that’s why we didn’t do it at GCSE. Making the dough was a right pain, and Paris must have got it completely wrong because hers didn’t even rise!” 

“School’s all right, though?” Greg asked, mind flashing back to long, fraught discussions that lasted well into the night about whether Amy wanted to stay on at sixth form to take A Levels, and he hoped she wasn’t regretting her decision to stick with it. 

“Yeah, it’s fine. Food tech, biology, and chemistry are good, but I still hate maths.”

“It’s a good subject to have, though.”

Amy sighed dramatically. “I know. If I really hate it I can drop it at the end of this year and I’ll still have three A Levels.”

By the time they got parked outside Abigail’s halls of residence, the rain had stopped and the sun was making a valiant effort at breaking through the gloom. 

Greg climbed out of the car taking the opportunity to stretch, and donned his coat. He'd just pulled his phone out to call his eldest when he saw her dart out of the main door of her complex. “Dad!” she called, seeming to bounce across the car park and out onto the street. 

Wrapping his arms around her, Greg felt something relax deep inside at having his baby close by again, even if she was looking more like a woman and less like his little girl every time he saw her. 

“I’ve missed you,” Abigail said, moving to embrace her younger sister. “You too, I suppose.”

“Whatever,” Amy replied, her pleasure at being reunited with her sister colouring her voice despite the pretence of indifference. 

Greg clapped his hands together and moved towards the car. “Come on, it’s too cold to stand around out here. Where to?” 

“It’ll be quicker to walk than drive into town from here,” Abigail said. 

“You sure?” Greg asked, looking dubiously up at the sky. “Looks like it’s going to chuck it down again.”

“Don’t be such a wimp, Dad!” Amy said. “A bit of rain never hurt anyone.”

“Fine, but on your heads be it.” Greg wagged his right index finger between his girls with mock seriousness, and was rewarded with twin giggles. 

The walk into Sheffield city centre took barely twenty minutes, and Greg was glad of the fresh air, even if it was bloody cold. “I didn’t realise how close you were to the city. What’s the area like? Any trouble?”

“No, Dad, it’s fine,” Abigail replied, and Greg heard, rather than saw, her eye roll. 

“What’s uni like? Is it really hard? Are there lots of hot boys?” Amy asked excitedly, leaning around Greg to peer at her older sister. 

Conversation about Abigail’s first weeks at uni, the difficulty of finding the right books in the library when everyone else wanted them, and the hotness of a boy called Ryan carried them into the heart of the city. 

“As fascinating as this boy sounds,” Greg interrupted, enjoying seeing the girls blush, “any idea what you want for lunch or where you want to eat, or are we going to wander around town until hunger consumes us?”

“Pizza,” Amy said immediately. 

“Sounds good after over a month living on Pot Noodles!” Abigail replied, and Greg fervently hoped she was joking.

Ten minutes later, the three of them stepped into Mamas & Leonies, just as the heavens opened. “Table for three, if you’ve got one,” Greg said to the waitress standing by the door, hoping that they wouldn’t have to go back out into the rain to find somewhere else. 

She consulted her book briefly. “Follow me,” she said, and led them through the busy but cosy restaurant to a table in the corner by the big window. It afforded them a good view of the street, which Greg liked, even if he could feel the cold through the glass. 

“Are you having a starter, Dad?” Abigail asked over the din, scanning her menu. 

Consulting the menu himself, Greg felt his stomach rumble; he’d not had breakfast, and over three hours of motorway driving, especially in torrential rain, was hungry work. 

Amy, who was seated immediately to his left at their small table, laughed. “I think that noise says it all!”

Within five minutes the waitress had been back to take their order, and they passed the time waiting for their drinks talking about Abigail’s course. 

“Professor Hayes is brilliant; he really knows how to make the subject come alive. The essay he’s set is the hardest of the three, though,” Abigail said ruefully, taking sip of her Diet Coke. “Anyway, I told you all this on the phone.” 

“Yeah, well, I haven’t seen you for a few weeks, have I? Good to hear it in person,” Greg replied, not caring if it sounded sappy. Leaving his girls had been bad enough, but would swear on it that having one of them so far from home had been physically painful to begin with.

“Aaaaw, you old softie,” Amy cooed. “Anyway, haven’t you got something to tell us?”

“Yeah, Dad, out with it!” Abigail demanded, far too eager for his liking. 

Anxiety rose in an unstoppable wave. There was really no getting out of it, and innumerable possible negative reactions flittered through his mind, leaving Greg feeling somewhat queasy. He fiddled nervously with his glass of Coke. 

“I’m seeing someone,” he declared resolutely, deciding that getting it out of the way quickly was the best solution. “A bloke I’ve known for a while, but things changed for us a few months back.”

The silence that met his news stretched uncomfortably for what felt to Greg like an eternity, only to be broken by a squeal that drew the attention of the neighbouring tables from his youngest daughter. 

“I knew it!” she exclaimed, punching the air excitedly. 

Greg looked across the table at Abigail, who was staring back at him with a pensive expression. Her eyes, so like his, flashed with concern. 

“Come on, Abs, say something,” he implored, a tight knot of fear in his gut. 

“Oh, I’m happy for you,” she said with a smile, after receiving a poke in the ribs from her sister, “but you are being careful, aren’t you? After that shooting in America, Zac was attacked on his way home from sixth form, and he knows it was because he’s gay.”

A feeling of immense lightness swept his body at his daughters’ easy acceptance, and he reached across the table for Abigail’s hand. She interlaced her fingers with his, and he gave it a squeeze as Amy took his other hand. “It’s my job to worry about you, not the other way around.”

“So, tell us about him,” Amy demanded, still holding his hand.

“What do you want to know?” 

“Everything!” the girls said in unison, and Greg laughed, feeling lighter than he had all week. 

“Well, his name’s Sherlock, and we met about twelve years ago when he turned up on one of my crime scenes, solved the case, called me an idiot, and swanned off again without so much as giving me his name.”

His daughters looked shocked for a moment before laughing, and the sound was music to Greg’s ears. 

“Sherlock? Isn’t he the private detective who faked his death?” Abigail asked after a moment, concern evident in her voice. For all that she looked a lot like Jane, aside from her eyes, there was a warmth about her that her mother had lost many moons ago. 

“Yeah, but there were exceptional circumstances,” Greg replied. “He did that to protect the people close to him, me included.”

“That was all ages ago! What does he look like now? Have you got a picture?” Amy babbled excitedly, unconcerned about what she likely considered to be ancient history.

“Should have somewhere.” Greg pulled out his phone and flicked quickly through the photo gallery, looking for a decent, fully clothed, picture of the other man, and eventually found one from Scott’s christening. Sherlock was standing in front of the window at Baker Street, violin dangling from his left hand, laughing at something John had said. He passed the phone to Amy just as their starters arrived, plates steaming. 

“Oooh, he’s gorgeous!” she exclaimed, passing the phone to her sister. “A bit old for my liking, but he’s kept his looks well.” 

Choking on his mouthful of garlic mushroom, Greg groped for his drink, gratefully taking a swallow to sooth his throat. _“Old?”_

“Yes,” she said with a decisive nod. “He’s got to be, what, thirty five?”

“You do realise that I’m over fifty, don’t you?” Greg responded, laden fork hovering over his plate.

“Yeah, but you’ve always been old." 

“Gee, thanks!”

Abigail grinned and leant over the table with her fork to swipe a mushroom from Greg’s plate. “So, his name’s Sherlock, he isn’t really dead, and thinks you’re an idiot. How did you get together?”

The memory of Sherlock kissing him in the kitchen and the night of intense sex that had followed swam to the forefront of Greg’s mind. “Ah, well, we had a chat and decided it was something we both wanted to try,” he said, ignoring that the talking came _after_ the sex.

“Aaaaw, Dad, you’re blushing!” his daughters cooed in unison.

Fate intervened in Greg’s favour, and he was saved from the need to respond by the arrival of the waitress to clear their plates away. 

“Was everything okay with your starters?” she asked in lightly accented English.

“Yeah, great, thanks,” Greg replied as the girls nodded enthusiastically. 

The waitress grinned. “Excellent. Your main courses will be out within ten minutes.”

Amy hopped up from her seat. “Just nipping to the loo!”

As soon as she was out of sight, Abigail looked around furtively and instigated a conversation that might just go down as the most embarrassing of Greg’s life. 

“You are being careful, aren’t you? With sex, I mean.” 

It took a long moment for Greg to catch her meaning, and felt his face heat with mortification once it clicked. “You do realise that this conversation is meant to go the other way, don’t you?” he asked, hoping to put her off. 

It didn’t work. “This is serious!” she said sternly. “We had a talk from a nurse during the introduction week, and she said that STDs are on the rise in older people as well as people my age, so no one should take risks. You can’t always see if someone has a disease, you know.”

“Yes, I know. We’re both clean and careful, I promise,” he replied, giving her concerns the respect they deserved, even if he was sure the mortification of it would be with him for life.

“Good. Apparently older people take longer to recover from illnesses.” 

“Are you okay for money? Do you need any shopping?” Greg asked in a desperate attempt to change the subject.

Abigail shook her head, brunet hair swaying with the motion, and smiled. “No, thanks. Mum had a load of food delivered last week, and I’ve still got some of the money you transferred when I moved up here.”

“You sure?”

With a roll of her eyes, his daughter leant over and kissed his cheek. “I’m sure, Dad. Besides, I’ve got a job interview at Costa into town next week. I really want to get a job; the careers adviser that came and spoke to us the other week said it makes us much more employable, even if it’s not in our field.”

Greg felt a swell of pride. He and Jane might have been crap at marriage, but they’d certainly got something right with their children. “Well done, sweetheart. Do you need help preparing?”

“No, thanks. I went to a workshop about preparing for interviews and had loads of practice with the uni interviews. Oh, here’s Amy; don’t say anything yet, please,” she implored, looking over Greg’s shoulder. 

Greg mimed zipping his lips and throwing the key over his shoulder.

“So, tell us more,” Amy demanded as she re-took her seat. “What’s he like? Has he got a family? When can we meet him?”

“Whoah, slow down,” Greg replied, though the thought of Sherlock with a couple of mini-Sherlocks amused him no end.

The return of the waitress, who was somehow balancing three large pizzas, gave Greg some breathing space, and for a few blessed moments the girls were diverted away from his love life. 

“Well?” Abigail asked, one eyebrow cocked, as she tucked into her pasta. 

“I’m hoping that you’ll be able to meet him over the Christmas period. He doesn’t have children, but you remember when I moved out of the house, and you visited me when I was staying at my friend Mycroft’s? Well, he’s Sherlock’s older brother.”

“Really? Mycroft was so cool!” Amy enthused. “This pizza is amazing!”

Greg snorted; she was right about the pizza but he wasn’t sure that Mycroft Holmes had ever been called cool before, and nor did he think that his friend would be particularly fond of the label. The meeting had been accidental and barely lasted five minutes, but had obviously had a lasting impact. “Anything else you want to know?”

“You haven’t said what Sherlock’s like yet,” Abigail prompted.

Greg hesitated. How on earth did one go about describing Sherlock Holmes? He could be as cold and calculating as a machine, routinely called him an idiot, but had faked his death to protect the people he cared about. Greg’s mind flashed to how free Sherlock was with his affection when they were alone, how he cooed over Scott when he thought no one was looking, and how warm he was with Mrs Hudson. 

“Aaaaw, Dad, that’s the sappiest smile I’ve ever seen!” Amy exclaimed, snapping Greg out of his reverie. His daughters laughed delightedly. 

“Behave, you two,” he said wagging a finger between them, and took a bite of his pizza. It really was good; cheesy and meaty and hot, and everything that was good on a wet, cold afternoon. 

“So, come on, what’s he like?”

“He can be a bit of a dick sometimes, but he’s good. You’ll meet him soon enough and can make up your own minds.”

“No details?” Amy whined.

Having a mouthful of pizza prevented Greg from speaking so he shook his head emphatically. 

The conversation had carried them through their meal and before long their waitress approached. “Would you like to see the dessert menu?” 

A glance at the table showed that Greg was the only one who has managed to finish his meal. “I think we’ll leave it, thanks.”

“Was everything okay?” she asked, clearing the table.

Greg looked at Amy and Abigail, who both nodded enthusiastically. “Great, thanks. Can I get the bill?” He turned to his eldest daughter as the waitress left. “So, what can three Lestrades do on a rainy Saturday afternoon in Sheffield?”

As it turned out, the answer was that three Lestrades could wander from shop to shop in the city centre, exclaiming over sparkly things, before taking a turn around the Winter Garden when the rain came down too hard for them to tolerate. 

After spending weeks jumping from case to case, a day out with his kids was exactly what Greg needed, and he was sorry to reach the end of it, even if he was wet, cold, and aching.

By the time they made it back to the car the three of them were more than slightly damp, and Amy was positively shivering despite her coat. 

Greg opened the boot and dug a jumper out the bag of spare clothing he kept there. “I told you a jumper would have been better,” he said, passing the jumper to his daughter. She glared at him but took the garment with a huff. 

“Thanks for today, Dad,” Abigail said, stepping into his arms.

“Pleasure’s all mine, sweetheart,” Greg replied with a kiss to the top of her head. “You need anything at all, get in touch, yeah?”

Abigail nodded and turned to hug her sister, who had shed her wet coat and was now bundled up in Greg’s jumper, as the rain increased in intensity. 

“As much as I hate to break this up, we need to get going and you need to get inside.”

Greg started the car to get the heat flowing but waited until Abigail was safely inside the building before putting it into gear and pulling away. A glance at the clock showed that it was a bit after five. If they were lucky they’d be back in London by eight thirty and he could get an early night. 

“That was so much fun!” Amy enthused. “Can we come back up here? It was good to see Abby, wasn’t it?”

“Course we can,” he replied distractedly, his attention largely on navigating his way out of the unfamiliar city. As much as he had enjoyed spending time with his daughters, the prospect of getting home, without the weight of anxiety and uncertainty hanging over him, was very appealing. “Tell your old man what you’ve got planned for next week,” he said, provoking a fast-paced ramble about Amy’s plans for the week ahead.


	3. Chapter 3

As is usually the case, the drive home didn’t seem to take half as long as the drive to Sheffield. They were on the M1 approaching Leicester when Greg felt his mobile vibrating insistently in his pocket, and by the time they passed Luton it had gone off another six times.

“Your mum’s not rang you, has she?” he asked Amy, interrupting her chatter about the numerous virtues of Newt Scamander and Hufflepuff.

“No, why?” 

“Someone keeps ringing me; thought it might be your mum trying to find out where we are.”

Amy checked her phone. “Nope, not Mum. Could it be Sherlock?” she asked, the last said in a sing-song voice. 

“Nope, he prefers to text,” Greg replied, refusing to rise to the bait.

“Hmm. Does Mycroft mind you going out with his brother? I mean, it must be weird for him, right?”

Greg tried to push away the cold fear that gripped his stomach at the thought of having that particular conversation with Mycroft Holmes. He wasn’t stupid, and was under no illusions that the elder Holmes wasn’t already aware of the changed nature of his and Sherlock’s relationship, but they hadn’t actually spoken about it. Though they had been friends for several years, he still couldn’t read the other man reliably, and had no idea how the conversation would go. As far as he knew, Mycroft had been out of the country for most of the autumn dealing with the fallout of the Brexit vote, trying to make sure that Britain’s bridges to Europe weren't irrevocably fire damaged. There was, doubtlessly, a very awkward conversation coming up in the near future. 

“We’ve not talked about it yet,” he said eventually, having to raise his voice over the pounding of the rain on the roof of the car. The windscreen wipers were working furiously to keep the glass clear, but he could still barely see the tail lights of the car in front. 

“Oh. Well, I’m sure it’ll be fine. Mycroft’s nice.” 

A snort escaped Greg; Mycroft Holmes was could be charming, cunning, and brutal in turns, but he didn’t think nice was ever a word that had been applied to him. “We’ll see. Anyway, tell me about biology; you were struggling with the anatomy module the other week.”

Discussion of human anatomy flowed into chemistry, and that into possible universities, and they were soon within striking distance of Uxbridge. 

“I can’t believe how quickly today’s gone!” Amy said with more than a hint of sadness. 

“Abby will be home for Christmas soon enough, and we’ll go back up to Sheffield in the new year. Could even make a weekend of it,” Greg reassured her, although he was feeling paternal pangs at having left one of his children so far away.

“Can I stay with you for a few days next week?”

“Of course you can, sweetheart.” He cast a concerned look out of the corner of his eye. “I’ve told you that the flat is as much your home as it is mine.”

“Thanks. We’ve got inset days on Thursday and Friday so I’ll come over on Thursday and we can have pizza when you’ve finished work,” Amy said, regaining some of her good humour. 

Greg smiled as he pulled up outside the house. “Wait there,” he instructed, opening the door and climbing out of the car into the torrential downpour. Water immediately swapped his boots, seeping through the join between the sole and the leather upper, and his feet made a distinctive wet slapping noise as he made quickly for the boot where he kept his umbrella. “Here,” he said, getting back into the car and handed it over to Amy, wiping his wet face with an equally wet hand. 

“Cheers, Dad,” she replied and leant over to kiss his cheek, “Thanks for telling us about Sherlock; I won’t say anything to anyone.”

Greg smiled and pulled her into as much of a hug as their awkward positions would accommodate. “Thanks. Your mum knows but I need to talk to Sherlock about Mycroft before we tell anyone else.” 

Amy nodded, and gave him a shrewd look. “I don’t know why you were scared of telling us.”

“I was not scared of telling you!” Greg protested, indignant.

“You fidgeted like you had ants in your pants all the way up there, Dad,” Amy said with an eloquent roll of her eyes. 

“Well, maybe a bit. Anyway, it’s gone nine and you’ve got a test to study for, so off with you.”

Amy gave him another tight squeeze, unfurled the umbrella and darted out of the car, her parting comment lost to the pounding of the rain on the roof of the car. 

He’d just got the car into gear when his phone started vibrating insistently against his thigh. Putting the car back into neutral, he pulled the phone out surprised to see his sister’s name on the display. 

“Hey, Sandra. Sorry I missed you; I’ve just dropped Amy off at home.” 

“Don’t you ‘hey, Sandra’ me, Gregory,” his sister snapped, furious. 

“What’s wrong?” he asked, perplexed. He hadn’t spoken to her for at least a fortnight, and was at a complete loss as to what could have set her off. 

“Jane rang at lunch,” she said, and Greg felt his stomach drop. 

“Ah.”

“Is that all you’ve got to say?” she thundered. “I find out from your ex-wife that you’ve shacked yourself up with some bloke and all you can say is ‘ah’?”

Anger was starting to take over and Greg couldn’t help snapping back. “I don’t know what your problem is—”

“—you’ve got yourself tangled up with a man and you don’t know what my problem is?”

Greg dropped his head back against the headrest and pinched the bridge of his nose with his free hand. “Yeah, I’m seeing a bloke.”

Sandra sighed, seeming to calm down. “Is this a mid-life crisis, Greg?”

“What? No!” His relationship with Sherlock was many things, but a mid-life crisis was not one of them. “It’s someone I’ve known for a long time. Things changed a couple of months ago; I told the girls today.”

“But a _man_? Since when are you queer?”

Something clicked in Greg’s mind, and he felt the anger flare anew. “That’s— you’ve got a problem with me being bi?”

“Is that what you’re calling it? All I know is that my little brother had a lovely wife and two beautiful daughters, ended up divorced because he put his job first, and now he’s suddenly gone queer!”

Greg sputtered and resisted the urge to throw the phone through the window. 

“First of all, the divorce had fuck all to do with my work, and second, I haven’t _suddenly gone queer_ ,” he spat, furious, hand free hand tugging on his hair enough to hurt. The pain, though not pleasant, served to draw his attention from the anger and hurt coursing through him. “I told you I was bi years ago, San—”

“--Christ, that was the eighties, Greg! We all thought it was a phase, or a fad, and then you married Jane, which proved it! Mum would be turning in her grave if she—”

“--Enough!” Greg roared, angry and hurt. “I don’t have to listen to this. I’m bi-sexual, always have been, and always will be. It’s not a phase that’s lasted over thirty years, and it didn’t go away because I married a woman. I’m with a bloke now. If you don’t like it, you can piss right off!” Giving into the urge, he terminated the call and threw the phone onto the passenger seat so hard that it bounced off and into the footwell, anger thrumming through him with every heartbeat. 

“Who the _fuck_ does she think she is?” he fumed to the empty car, slamming both hands onto the steering wheel with enough force that his wrists jarred painfully. Gripping the wheel tightly, despite the discomfort in his hands, Greg made a concerted effort to slow his breathing and gradually felt some of the anger and hurt bleeding out of him. His sister’s attitude, whilst almost physically painful, was not unique to her; it wasn’t the first time he had fallen afoul of some version of it and he doubted it would be the last. 

Several minutes passed before Greg felt calm enough to drive, the thought of getting home doing more to centre him than any number of breathing exercises seemed to. The lights from the street lamps, buildings and other vehicles blurred as he drove through the rain, and he was surprised to realise that it was late enough that the traffic was light, and the journey home only took half an hour. 

Considering how quickly his day had gone to hell, Greg was pleasantly surprised to see a car pull out of the parking spot outside his building as he turned onto the street. Once parked and able to see his own front door, he realised just how damp and chilled he was, and made short work of getting out of the car, across the pavement, and into his flat. 

Inside and out of the rain, Greg fell back against the closed front door with a weary sigh and took a moment to enjoy the quiet of his home, letting the dark soothe his frayed nerves. It wasn't until he was approaching the living room door that he noticed the light under it and heard voices from within. 

He moved towards the door, the wet soles of his shoes slipping slightly on the laminate flooring, and the murmur of voices from inside grew clearer.

“I am not following a traitorous civil servant around with a pooper scoop, Mycroft,” Sherlock said disdainfully, voice muffled by the thick wood of the door. 

Greg pushed open the door and found Sherlock on the settee, knees drawn up to his chest and arms wrapped around his legs. Mycroft was sitting primly in the armchair by the window, umbrella propped against the wall behind him. His hands were pressed together as though in prayer, fingers steepled under his chin in a way that was so very reminiscent of Sherlock.

“What is the point in keeping your umbrella in the boot of the car if you have to go out into the rain to get it?” the elder Holmes brother asked, sharp eyes sweeping Greg’s body. 

“Mycroft,” Greg said in greeting, ignoring the question, and sat on the sofa beside Sherlock. 

Sherlock uncoiled and turned to look at Greg, eyes intense. “Abigail and Amy were accepting but your ex-wife did not react well.”

“Don’t forget the sister, Sherlock,” Mycroft said, examining his fingernails. 

Sherlock looked at Greg again, eyes sharper than they had been moments before. “Oh, yes, obviously. I wouldn’t leave your phone in the car all night; even in the footwell it will be too tempting a target for some people.”

Greg dropped his head back and closed his eyes with a groan. “I’m not even going to ask how you know that.”

Sherlock snorted. “Obvious.”

With a concerted effort Greg lifted his head and looked at Mycroft. The other man, in his perfectly tailored three-piece suit, made the flat around him look shabby. “Not that you’re not always welcome, but to what do I owe the pleasure tonight?”

“I believe it is customary to offer congratulations when one discovers that a friend is in a new relationship,” Mycroft replied archly, one eyebrow raised. 

Greg felt something uncomfortable settle in his stomach; whilst they’d never had the kind of friendship that involved regular pints in the pub, Mycroft had been there for him at his lowest ebb, and Greg had repaid that by taking up with his younger brother without a word. 

“Don’t be ridiculous, Greg,” Mycroft said dismissively before Greg had fully worked out the reasons for his feelings of guilt. “I have been aware of this side of your relationship since the evening Sherlock made his move, as it were. It was a relief, honestly; his pining was utterly intolerable.”

“Right,” Greg said over Sherlock’s disgruntled noise, unsure where the conversation was going. “I wanted to tell the girls before anyone else found out.”

Mycroft waved an elegant hand, light catching on the gold band that adorned his right ring finger. “Obviously. Of course, I don’t have to tell you that there will be…consequences if any harm comes to my brother at your hands.” Though his body was relaxed, the look in his eye spoke volumes about just how unpleasant those consequences would be. 

“Well, if that’s all, brother dear,” Sherlock cut in, all but leaping from the settee. The purple shirt he was wearing stretched slightly with his movements and Greg caught a tantalising glimpse of pale skin where the fabric bunched around the buttons. 

Mycroft stood from his seat. “Very subtle, Sherlock,” he said, amused. “Are you sure you won’t look into this case for me?” 

Sherlock sighed dramatically. “Send me the details; I’ll look into on Monday if I clear up my current case.”

“It was Carruthers,” Mycroft replied, stooping to pick up his umbrella. “Check the floorboards closest to the window in his back bedroom.”

Greg was amused to see the brief flash of annoyance cross his partner’s face before it settled once more into indifference. “Piss off, Mycroft,” he snapped.

“Dear me, Sherlock, how do you miss these things?” Mycroft asked, bemused, as he crossed the room. “Have a good night.” 

The living room door closed behind him with a loud click and Sherlock immediately stalked off into the kitchen. Greg heard him open and close the fridge and a drawer, followed by the sound of lids being removed from bottles, and before long the other man was back in the living room bearing two bottles of beer. “Jane and your sister are idiots,” he declared, passing Greg a bottle. He re-took his seat, but edged slightly closer than he had been whilst Mycroft was in the room.

Enjoying the warmth of the other man’s body, Greg settled against him and took a sip of his drink. “I know,” he replied, trying to push away the hurt his sister’s words had caused. He’d expected no less from Jane, for she had taken an instant dislike to Sherlock when they had first met, but Sandra’s attitude cut deep.

“I don’t know how to make this better.” 

“You can’t; they’ll either get over it or they won’t.”

Sherlock stroked Greg’s leg with his free hand, long, pale fingers trailing along his denim-clad thigh. “Your daughters took it well, though.”

“Very,” Greg agreed, mood lifting slightly at the memory of their lunch. “They’re looking forward to meeting you.” Sherlock stiffened beside him, fingers stilling, and Greg smiled. “Don’t worry; unlike your brother they’re not likely to have you assassinated at the first sign of trouble,” he said, leaning in to press a kiss against Sherlock’s lips. “I take it Mycroft was here to see you and not me.” 

Sherlock’s hand continued working its way higher up Greg’s thigh, and, light though his touch was, Greg felt it to his core. “Yes. A very valuable and possibly inflammatory microchip has gone missing from Thames House, the MI5 headquarters. Mycroft, of course, knows who has stolen it, how they did it, and who they intend to pass it on to but can't be bothered to do the leg work necessary to deal with it,” he said with disdain. 

“Sounds about right. Besides, why should he do leg work when you’re so good at it?”

The pleased flush that crept up Sherlock’s cheeks at the praise was adorable, as far as Greg was concerned, and he said as much. 

“You’re delusional, Lestrade,” Sherlock said aloofly. 

Greg closed his eyes and let his head fall back onto the sofa. “Hmm. I’ve been called worse.” The quiet of the flat combined with the stress of the day, and having come through the other side of it relatively unscathed, Greg suddenly found himself exhausted. He yawned hugely and stretched his arms up over his head. “You staying here tonight?”

“Yes,” replied Sherlock, hand still absently stroking Greg’s thigh. 

“What have you got on tomorrow? Finishing up this case?”

Sherlock scoffed. “Mycroft isn’t as clever as he thinks he is; I’ve already dealt with Carruthers and the contents of the compartment under his floorboards are with your colleagues in Fraud.”

Greg smiled. The smug look on Sherlock’s face was too much and he was compelled to kiss him. The other man responded eagerly, but the kiss did not progress further than a bit of half-hearted petting before Greg interrupted it with another yawn. “Sorry,” he said, voice muffled by the back of his hand where he had it pressed to his mouth. 

“You’re exhausted,” Sherlock replied, moving away. 

“Says the man who probably hasn’t slept for three days.”

With a roll of his eyes Sherlock stood from the sofa and moved towards the living room door. “Thirty six hours, actually. I’m going to get your phone before an opportunist liberates it.” 

Greg levered himself up, making a mental note to book an appointment with his chiropractor when his back twinged uncomfortably, and headed for the bedroom.

He was standing at the bathroom sink brushing his teeth in just his pants when Sherlock returned, dark curls slightly damp and Greg’s phone in hand. “Sandra has called three times since you have been back,” he said carefully, leaning against the door frame. 

“She can piss off,” Greg replied, doing his best to ignore the lingering pain caused by her words; he’d heard them before, especially in his younger years, but it didn't make them any less hurtful. He took his phone from Sherlock as he passed and dropped it carelessly onto the chest of drawers. “You coming to bed?” 

Sherlock shook his head. “I’m working on some data from my latest analysis of mud samples from the banks of the Thames.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. The variation in acid levels from sites in close proximity to each other is very interesting, especially in the more industrial areas,” the younger man replied, lighting up as he talked about his experiment. “But you don’t want to hear about that. Go to bed; I’ll be through later.”

Greg walked up to Sherlock, cupped his cheek and leant in for a gentle kiss. “I do want to hear about it. Maybe not right now, because I can barely keep my eyes open, but I’m interested. How about we go out for breakfast tomorrow, and you can tell me about your results.”

Although Sherlock’s face remained impassive, Greg could see in his eyes that he was pleased. “Yes, yes, fine. Now go to bed, old man."  
“Cheeky fucker,” Greg replied, but did exactly as directed and was asleep within minutes.


End file.
